


From Hatred And Love

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Missing Scene, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23627146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: What happened to Mycroft when Sherlock and John had been sedated in "The Final Problem"? What happened between Sherlock and Eurus in Musgrave? Why does Sherlock visit Eurus in Sherrinford?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 40
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just an idea that wouldn't let me go. Perhaps the five people who still seem to read my stuff will get something out of it ;)

## Sherrinford

Thank God… Mycroft feels as if he’s about to keel over the next moment. He had been holding his breath. His pulse races. How could Sherlock do this? He looks down on his little brother’s motionless form. He is breathing steadily, the gun has slipped from his hand. The dart hadn’t been poisoned he is sure. Eurus had sounded positively devastated when Sherlock had pointed the bloody weapon at himself. She had not wanted to see _him_ dead.

Doctor Watson is lying on the floor, too. Mycroft doesn’t really care if _he_ is still alive, too. When the short man comes to his senses, will he think that Mycroft offered to die for him? The man who had beaten his brother and delivered him to a serial killer? Mycroft does know that it was a pointless move anyway, trying to sacrifice himself. As if Sherlock would have ever killed his best friend. Why had he even played this charade? To go with dignity? Perhaps, yes.

No dart for him. Eurus has disappeared from the monitor. She will be here soon.

Mycroft bends down and picks up the gun. His hand is steady. When he hears steps, he holds his breath.

He lets the heavy weapon drop when the door is being pushed open by three armed men – no way to get rid of them all – he has only one bullet. Eurus is nowhere to be seen. They pull him out by the arm and he follows along, knowing any opposition to be pointless, and a couple of minutes later, he finds himself locked in Eurus’ cell. This is the end. She will finish what Sherlock has not been able to do.

And then she is there, dressed in her ghostly white dress, her hair a tousled mess as if she had ruffled it in agony at Sherlock spoiling her game. Shivering with fury and something that he, with more than a bit of confusion, identifies as jealousy. And she is not armed.

“What will you do with Sherlock?” he asks her when she makes no attempt at talking to him, just staring at him with her dead eyes. There is a lot he could say to her but there is only one thing that is important – his brother’s wellbeing.

“Bring him home,” she says, grinning suddenly, and she looks crazier than ever.

He narrows his eyes and then he understands. She only knows one home aside from Sherrinford – Musgrave. Or rather: the ruins of their childhood home, which she set on fire thirty years ago. And he also understands something else – there is no plane up there. It was just a game. Perhaps not really a game though. Perhaps a part of his sister which has disassociated from her usually so controlled and cold personality. Her innocent, vulnerable part? But that does not make that much sense as she used the plane as a pledge to make them obey. But what makes sense about this woman anyway? Before he can say anything, she spits out, “He loves you.”

That takes him aback and he can’t suppress a sad smile. “No, he doesn’t. He just refused to play your game so you don’t win after all you’ve put us through.”

“Oh, Mycroft. Blind, silly Mycroft.” Her voice is full of contempt. “Doesn’t see what happens right in front of him.”

“I have no idea what you mean.” He should ignore her. Don’t start playing a game with her again. But perhaps he wants to hear it, even if it’s a lie. After having to listen to Sherlock proclaiming his love to someone else. Even though he knows that he did not mean it. Not in the way the Hooper woman, who had forced him to say it, did. But Sherlock can’t love _him_ like this, either. It’s ridiculous.

“No? Do you need glasses? Didn’t you see how he smiled at you? You missed how he called you ‘dear’? And he’d have rather died himself than giving you what you deserve.”

The hatred in her last words makes him shudder. Why does she tell him this? Certainly not to make him feel better. She has plans. But not with him; he can sense that, and it doesn’t bring him any relief. “Leave Sherlock alone.”

She laughs and it’s a sound that makes his spine tingle. “Oh, I will. After I made him hate you again.”

He knows what she means before he hears it. “Don’t…”

“I’ll kill John Watson,” she interrupts him with a gleeful grin. “After letting Sherlock beg me for saving him.”

And tell Sherlock it’s all his fault. Make him regret that he hasn’t shot Mycroft when he had the chance. It is all clear as day. She has done all this to get Sherlock's attention. His sole attention… But in fact she hates Sherlock and has always done it. First, he only had eyes for Victor Trevor, ignoring his little sister, so Victor had to disappear. And now he has, in her crazy eyes, betrayed her again by sparing Mycroft's life – and John’s, too. She could finish John right off. But like a particularly cruel cat, she wants to play with her mice a bit more. And then probably disappear for good.

“Perhaps Sherlock will even kill himself,” she says, dreamily.

Kill himself because he can’t live with having lost John at the hands of his own little sister, made possible by the failures of his big brother. There is a cruel logic to this. And there is nothing he can do. “Kill me, Eurus,” he says tonelessly. “Bring Sherlock back to London and kill me instead. It’s _me_ you want to see dead anyway.” He is not even sure why. He had kept her locked away – well, he has tried – but he has given her puzzles. He has taken care of her wellbeing, as much as this was possible in the prison.

“But _Sherlock_ should have killed you!” she suddenly screeches, making him cringe. “But he didn’t because he _loves_ you! He wants to _fuck_ with you!”

This is completely insane. Sherlock doesn’t want anything like this.

“And _you_ want it, too,” she smirks, and he grows cold.

Did he really think that she wouldn’t have deduced this? Sherlock has never seen it. Never even imagined it, he is sure. But this crazy woman, who doesn’t have a single friend in the world, is better at deducing sentiment – and yes, desire – than Sherlock is.

And better than _he_ is? If she is right about him, isn’t it possible that she is right about Sherlock, too, as unbelievable as this seems?

He closes his eyes in deep sadness. Even if she has deduced Sherlock's feelings for him correctly – he will never find out. If she kills John, Sherlock _will_ hate him, no matter how he is feeling about him now. Because there is no doubt that this is all his fault. Without arranging the meeting of Eurus and Moriarty, without him slipping so badly regarding her incarceration, she would have never been able to do what she has done and will still do today.

She sees his pain and smiles. “Just like this, big brother. And now excuse me.” And with this, she is gone, and the door gets locked behind her.

Mycroft slumps down, tears welling up in his eyes. He hasn’t suffered a scratch while other people died. Not a hair on his head is out of place. And he has never felt so defeated in all his life.

## Baker Street

“You poor, poor boys.”

Mrs Hudson keeps muttering those words. Sherlock pays no heed to her. His hands are cramped around a mug with hot chocolate. His eyes are staring into nothingness.

“Hey, Sherlock. Are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer John. He hardly hears him.

They have come to Baker Street where Mrs Hudson was looking after Rosie. His flat is a mess after the explosion. They have hardly had time to clean up and there is no way to stay there. Mrs Hudson's flat has remained undamaged. She offered her guest room to him and he gladly accepted. John told him that he could stay in his flat but Sherlock didn’t want to leave Baker Street. There is a lot to do and clients might seek him out.

Now nothing of this matters.

“Has he been like this all the time?” Mrs Hudson whispers.

John, snuggled into a thick blanket, under which he is only wearing a pair of Sherlock's pants as his clothes still have to dry on the heating, shakes his head. “Not right away. When Eurus was brought to the helicopter, he seemed to be okay. As much as it was to be expected after all this.” He has told Mrs Hudson a short version of all the horrors that have happened tonight. “In the police car, he already didn’t say a word.”

“This ghastly, ghastly woman,” Mrs Hudson hisses loud enough to get through to Sherlock.

Sherlock glances at her. Of course she has to think that. And of course she is right. But… It's not the full truth, not regarding him.

He thinks of the minutes he spent with his sister in the ruins of Musgrave. Hears her saying, angrily, bitterly, _‘_ _I never_ _had_ _a best friend. I had_ _no-one_ _.’_

Eurus, the murderer, the psychopath. Eurus, the lost girl on the plane. His little sister, craving for his attention, giving him a puzzle that he had never solved.

_I... am... lost... Help... me... brother... Save... my... life... before... my... doom. I... am... lost... without... your... love... Save... my... soul... Seek... my... room._

She had wanted him to save her, and he had never understood.

But then he did. And he brought her back, despite being shaken up by the truth about Redbeard.

‘ _Open your eyes. I’m here,’_ he said. _‘You’re not lost any more.’_

How did he reach her in the end? With his words? Finally deciphering this silly song? Telling her that it wasn’t too late? Or was it the embrace? Had anyone ever embraced her before?

Sherlock is not a fool. He knows why she had put John into this well. She had been determined to let him die, right next to Victor’s bones, to take another one of his friends away from him forever, destroying his already fragile relationship with Mycroft for good. She just gave him one more chance, and finally he got through to her. He solved the final problem.

He asked her to save John, to tell him where he is. She looked at him with eyes full of tears, and after what felt like ages she told him where to find John. And before she let him go, she said something else, something he didn’t mention to anyone.

‘ _He loves you. Mycroft loves you.’_

He had never thought that his brother didn’t love him – in his distanced, awkward way. He had always tried to protect him, being annoying and arrogant about it, no matter how nastily Sherlock had treated him. But Sherlock had always known that his brother's support didn’t only root in family obligations. Mycroft loved him. Just not in the right – or rather: wrong – way.

And then Eurus smiled at him and added, _‘Just like you love him.’_ There was no doubt about what she meant. And he could see she wasn’t playing games. She wasn’t making him wrong hopes because she had deduced his feelings for Mycroft during the _who-do-you-need-most_ -game. She had appreciated his behaviour towards her and wanted to give him something back for it, after all the mayhem she had caused this night.

It almost tore him apart. Flashes of this night lit up in his mind. How Mycroft had offered to die so John could live. How he had smiled at Sherlock. Even made fun about himself, calling his heart _‘not much of a target’_.

Sherlock had known that this was a lie. But he had not seen anything he had not expected.

And Eurus had? Is this even possible?

He winces when someone pats his shoulder. It's John.

“I’ll leave in a minute, taking Rosie with me. Sod the wet clothes. I want to be home for what it’s left of the night and not sleep on a couch. Did you check your phone? Perhaps Greg has news about your brother.”

“Why would you care, John? Didn’t you say, _‘What goes around comes around’?”_ Why has he said this?

The doctor sighs. “Yeah, and you sent Lestrade to check on him.”

He did. Figuring that he is the very last person his brother wants to see after this debacle.

No. It was more than this. He couldn’t imagine facing Mycroft now. Not tonight. But now he realises that he has to. Mycroft might know that he is unharmed. But if Eurus told Sherlock about Mycroft's feelings – perhaps she did the same with Mycroft? Because his brother has clearly never understood how Sherlock has been feeling about him ever since he turned fourteen. An eternity. An eternity of suppressing this unwelcome sentiment, hiding it behind a mask of snarkiness and contempt. Things have been better between them since they planned his fake death. It was not possible to be as awful to his brother as he had been all the time before. He had used him, basically, used him to save his friends. Does Mycroft know this? Certainly yes. But he does not know how hard it was for Sherlock to work so closely with him. How hard to not sniff at him when he bent over Mycroft's shoulder, to not reach out and touch – and how hard to leave.

And now Eurus tells him that Mycroft loves him the same way?

Sherlock can hardly believe it. And he knows that there is no way to leave Mycroft alone tonight. Not if he has been told about Sherlock's unbrotherly feelings for him. And even if he is still not aware of them – Sherlock has to know if it's true, if Mycroft really returns them. And he feels the urge to tell him how he feels, after all those years of hiding it. This night has cut deep. He needs Mycroft to know that he loves him – somehow it has become the most urgent thing to do after they were so close to losing their lives. What an awkward conversation this will be… But that won't change, no matter when they have it. And he wants to be with his brother now.

He gets up, the mug still in his hand. He downs the sweet fluid. It tastes good. It makes him feel warmer inside. “I shouldn’t have asked Greg to look after him. I will go to him now.” Mycroft should be at home by now. He will have made all arrangements for Eurus’ containment via phone. “Please tell Mrs Hudson that I will stay with Mycroft tonight.”

“Well, what if he doesn’t want you to?” Then John shakes his head. “Nah, stupid. Of course he’d want that.”

Sherlock eyes him closely but of course John hasn't meant it in any delicate way. He bids him goodnight and hails a cab. He doesn’t contact Mycroft. He wouldn’t have known what to say. He can only hope that he will know it when he meets him.

## Mycroft's House

It is all done. Mycroft sips at his whiskey. He is lying flat on his back, a pillow stuffed behind his head. His phone is off now since he had dragged himself under the shower; he hasn’t bothered to shave.

There have been lots of excuses, explanations and taking measures to ensure that his sister will never repeat today’s stunt. Never leave Sherrinford again. She was completely closed up when she was brought back, he was told. Didn’t say a word. But she seemed… peaceful. Something he would have never thought he would hear someone say about his sister.

It is amazing in the end. She did not kill Doctor Watson. She told Sherlock how to save him. There is only one explanation for this – Sherlock showed his compassion. A compassion Mycroft would have been unable to pull off. Not for her. Not for anyone but his brother. In the end, Sherlock has proven that he is, in fact, the smart one. Sentiment won over intellect. For once, caring was an advantage.

His brother is with John now, surely. Mycroft could have tracked his phone but he hasn’t done it. All his control and surveillance has not kept Eurus from targeting his brother and his sidekick. How could she have slipped through the nets of observation? Pretending to be Culverton Smith’s daughter. Like an idiot, he had let it all happen, had let the people in Sherrinford please him with lies about her containment. It is unforgivable.

These people have been removed, of course. And everybody who works in this prison will be monitored 24/7. Eurus, too, naturally. It will never happen again. She has caused enough damage.

He has to live with his guilt. Thanks to his stupidity, people have died. And perhaps the worst part of this is that he feels relieved more than anything else. Because no harm was done to his brother. And perhaps… No. Not going to happen. He has not lost John thanks to him but that doesn’t mean that he has any feelings for him, Mycroft. This was just a cruel lie.

He shivers in his thin pyjamas but he feels too weak to even crawl under the blanket. He won’t go to work before the afternoon; Anthea cancelled two meetings. He would have been of no use in them anyway. He needs sleep. But he can’t imagine he will get any.

And then he hears something. Someone has entered the house. Someone with the ability to get past his alarm system. And who has a key.

He feels like a trapped animal. He can’t face his brother now. What does he want? He has to know that Mycroft had come home in one piece – in the end he had sent his inspector to check on him. Lestrade is a decent man and Mycroft did not mind dealing with him. In fact he felt touched that Sherlock would care enough about him to do this. Of course he wouldn’t come himself; why should he, Mycroft had thought.

But now he is here.

When he enters the room, Mycroft sees nothing but his tall, slim silhouette. He doesn’t switch on the light, and Mycroft is grateful for it. He can feel that his cheeks are glowing. Perhaps enough to see it in the dark…

“Brother,” Sherlock says, standing at the far end of the bed.

“Sherlock.” His voice sounds normal. Not the squeaky tone he had feared. But what now? “How is John?” he settles for. As if he cared.

“Good. Guess he is dry again now.”

“Yes. Now we know what happened to Victor.”

“Thanks for telling me about him,” Sherlock retorts dryly.

So that’s why he has come… Mycroft should have known it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to…”

“It’s okay. It was ages ago,” Sherlock interrupts him. He takes a chair and sits down.

“If you want a drink, you can…”

“No, thanks.”

They are silent for a minute. So Sherlock has not come to confront him with the truth about Redbeard. He is obviously not here to upbraid him for the mess of this night.

“Our sister is locked away again,” he finally breaks the silence. “Secure.”

“Good. I didn’t doubt this. It was not your fault, Mycroft. Nothing of this. I know you are blaming yourself but you shouldn’t. If the people in the prison had done their job as you told them to, it wouldn’t have happened.”

It means a lot to hear this from Sherlock even though he doesn’t really believe it. He should have done better. “Thank you,” he says very quietly. “I’m just glad… that you are okay.”

“Yes. Who would have thought that all she needs is a hug?”

Mycroft imagines this scene – Sherlock embracing their murderous sister. He doesn’t exactly like it. But obviously it did make the difference. “Do you… want to visit her?” Why has he asked this?

“Can I?” Sherlock sounds surprised but pleased. “I would like to, yes. In a secure way, of course.”

“Naturally. Nothing unsupervised will ever happen with her again.”

“Why didn’t you trust me, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks. “When we planned my ‘death’? You knew that Moriarty had spoken to her. And not even then you told me about her.”

It was a mistake. Mycroft knows it now. “You are right. I should have. But it had nothing to do with a lack of trust. I just… I don’t know. Perhaps I didn’t want you to know about her.” Isn’t that childish? Wasn’t he, in fact, jealous of a possible relationship between Sherlock and their sister? Perhaps, if Sherlock had visited her, she wouldn’t have killed those people. No. Not perhaps… “I just wanted to protect you,” he says, fisting the sheets. “And maybe… I didn’t want you to hate me for locking her away.”

“Oh Mycroft. You didn’t even do this. Uncle Rudy did. You must tell our parents about her.”

“What?” Mycroft has not even thought about this.

“You must. What if it comes out? I suppose you fired the old guards? What if they go to the media with this horror story?”

He is right. Of course everybody in Sherrinford is obliged to keep silent about anything that goes on behind those walls. But who can really control the papers? Or the internet… He sighs. “That is not going to be a pleasant conversation.”

“I’ll join you if you want.”

Sherlock wants to support him? “That would be good.”

“Fine. Let them come to London and I’ll be there.”

“Great.”

They are silent again for a moment. He can feel that Sherlock has not said what he has come for. And suddenly he knows why. Eurus told him about the alleged feelings that his brother harbours for him. And she has reconciled with Sherlock. So perhaps she told him that he, Mycroft, returns those feelings? If they even exist. But he can feel now that they do. Sherlock wouldn’t have come here in the first place if they didn’t. He wouldn’t have offered to face the wrath he has coming from their parents with him. He does… like him. And he has no idea how to put it in words.

Of course he could be wrong. Perhaps Eurus hasn’t said anything like this to Sherlock, perhaps his brother does not like him like this. It is a risk. But one of them has to make the first step. Jump into the deep end. It’s the least he can do after tonight to be the one to do it.

“Sherlock… Eurus said… She’d deduced…” He breaks off, feeling embarrassed. Great idea to just start talking. He sounds like a moron.

But then Sherlock gets up from his chair and walks over to him. “Yes. She said the same to me.”

Mycroft can hardly breathe. “And… is it true?” he somehow brings out.

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “Yes. So it is… the same for you?”

Mycroft's head is spinning. For a moment he considers that Eurus has reprogrammed Sherlock into saying this and then laughing at him. Perhaps he has even come with a gun? He drops this thought. This is Sherlock. Just Sherlock. “Yes,” he says, and his voice is steady. “For a very long time.”

“God… We are _idiots_.”

Mycroft gasps but then he chuckles, suddenly feeling so much lighter. “Probably. So you hid it well, too.”

“Oh yes. I learned from the best.”

“And what now?”

Sherlock sits down on the bed. “I have no idea. My fantasy never got to this point.”

Mycroft believes that. His brother, the asexual, aloof man. Can’t even imagine real physical intimacy. Let alone emotional one. But then the detective bends over; bringing his face close to Mycroft's, and just like this, they kiss. It is a soft, gentle peck but it seems to send sparks of electricity through Mycroft's body. He reaches out to stroke Sherlock's thick curls and pull him back. Their lips meet again, firmer this time. Mycroft parts his lips in invitation, and closes his eyes when Sherlock's tongue slips into the gap. Their tongues push against each other for a moment.

Then Sherlock pulls back. “Wow. This was…”

Ghastly? Awkward? Something he never wants to do again?

“...great,” Sherlock finishes his sentence. “I think we should… You know…”

“...take it slowly, of course. There’s no hurry, Sherlock. No obligation. If you don’t want more, it is fine.” It is already much more than he had ever expected. “Stay with me tonight. You can have a guest room or sleep next to me. If you want.”

“Yes. Next to you. I should… take a shower and all that.”

“Of course. You can use my electric razor if you want. There are fresh toothbrushes in the drawer and shampoo and body wash are…”

“I’ll find everything. Thank you.”

“Sherlock. This is your home if you want to. Stay here until your flat is habitable again.” Of course John will be surprised. But they’ll just say they want to get along better. After all they’ve been through, it is hopefully believable.

“I will. I’ll get some stuff here tomorrow. Not everything was blown up, thank God.”

“Fine. Or I can buy whatever you need. Better to put it in a guest room, just in case John will drop by.”

“He won’t. But sure, we’ll do this.” Sherlock makes a rather helpless, all-encompassing gesture. “I still don’t really believe all this, you know.”

Mycroft laughs. “Oh, ask me. No pressure, Sherlock. If you find out that you only want to be my, you know, brother, it’s fine, too.”

“I highly doubt that, Mycroft. But if _you_ come to this conclusion, just tell me.”

“I think this is very improbable.”

“Even better. I should, um…”

“Of course. Take your time.”

He watches his brother leave the room.

Is this really happening? It is the most amazing outcome of this night. What will they make of it? One thing is clear – it may never bring them further apart. If he feels that Sherlock does not really want this, he will back away at once.

When Sherlock comes back, freshly showered and shaved, they lie next to each other, stiffly at first, but then Sherlock searches for his hand and their fingers intertwine, and Mycroft is stroking his brother’s long, warm digits until he falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

## The Cabinet Office

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft says meekly, knowing it won’t make a difference. This shouldn’t hurt. He is a grown man. And he’s had worse from the PM for the disaster in Sherrinford. And still…

“Alive?! For all these years?” Mummy sounds as if she still can’t believe it.

Mycroft doesn’t blame her. He glances at Sherlock. His brother is leaning against the door with his arms folded. So far he has not said a word. But it is not his fight. He is utterly innocent of the mess Mycroft has allowed to happen and his sheer presence is a huge comfort for Mycroft.

Mummy demands to know how this was possible, and he tries to explain to her that he has only continued what Uncle Rudy had begun thirty years ago, but Mummy explodes and calls him ‘idiot boy’. Father butts in as well, which is remarkable. The rather soft old man has always been one to avoid conflicts if possible. But today it is ‘bash Mycroft time’, obviously.

When Mummy says he should have done better, voicing Mycroft's own thoughts about his failures, Sherlock raises his head.

“He did his best,” he says, softly, and Mycroft feels a pull at his heart.

Sherlock stepping in for him. It is unheard of. His brother had stayed all night. In the morning, they kissed again, their hands gently palming the other one’s face. It’s as far as they’ve gone so far. Mycroft doesn’t mind at all. They need to get over with the aftermaths of this nasty night before they can move on. Together, hopefully. And of course he meant what he told Sherlock – there is no obligation to go all the way. Or even part of the way. He has been living without sexual contacts for twenty years – he can go on living like this. Of course he does crave it; he admits it. But if they go on kissing and exchanging innocent caresses, he will be a very happy man. Something tells him that his brother, his virgin brother, will be the one to go a lot further than this, and he’ll be absolutely happy to follow. But for now, he is just grateful that Sherlock is keeping him company in this nasty ordeal and is trying to defend him now. To be called ‘very limited’ is a small price for his beloved brother’s support.

He has seen it coming – the parents want to visit Eurus. Who has not said a word since her conversation with Sherlock in Musgrave. “There is no point.” Of course he knows that there is no point in trying to keep their parents away from her, either. And a part of him fears that she might give them away. She has done something spectacularly nice for him and Sherlock. But he doesn’t trust her. She could have as well only done it to destroy them. Sherlock believes that she has genuinely wanted to help them. But he has not witnessed Mycroft's conversation with her… It is hard to accept that she should have changed so much just because of a hug…

Of course his mother gets at his throat again. And then she calls Sherlock ‘the grown-up’. He can see that his brother is very surprised about this statement. And it might be a bit odd, given his past. But Mycroft knows that Mummy just aims to hurt him. And she does. But not nearly as much as she would have hadn’t last night ended so pleasantly…

Sherlock is radiating sentiment. They hadn’t had time for more than a few words before their parents arrived as Mycroft had come straight out of a meeting. He should have maybe waited with informing the parents about Eurus but Sherlock had been right – it could have come out and that would have made them even angrier. So far they have managed to keep the events of last night hush-hush. But people have died. It will come out eventually. He just hopes he and his colleagues can control what the media publishes to some extent. England does still have a free press though…

Sherlock explains to Mummy and Father that he is going to visit Eurus. Alone, at first. To get her prepared for the contact with them. She might not say a word to them though and he tells them in a serious tone that they shouldn’t show their disappointment if she doesn’t respond to them. Of course he knows that they can hardly hide it from Eurus. But he certainly is aware of the fact that their sister doesn’t care about the parents anyway. And he obviously cares for her, and Mycroft doesn’t begrudge him for doing it. Sherlock tends to feel protective of women. And in the end, Eurus has done them a huge favour.

Sherlock’s calm suggestions placate Mummy and Father. A bit… They still hardly bide Mycroft goodbye when they leave after demanding to be kept updated about when they can go to Sherrinford.

He leans back in his chair when Sherlock closes the door behind them. And he has to suppress a smile when he realises how close brother was to pushing them out of the room. They are so blind, the old people. No matter how smart Mummy is – she has no deduction powers. She has neither realised how much closer their sons have become since she had last seen them nor that Sherlock is very pissed off at them.

Now Sherlock turns to him, shaking his head. “I’m the grown-up. That was the joke of the century… I’ve always been the black sheep of the family.”

Mycroft smiles at him. “Ah, do not fret your clever head about, little brother. It is nice to be the black sheep for once. Black suits me.”

Sherlock grins, approaching his desk. “That’s true. But really…”

“They are upset. I’d expected this much.”

“Yes, but they have to see your point. I mean, they know about Victor. They know what she did last night. What do they expect? That you’d let her run free? And it was Rudy who told them she’s dead. It wouldn’t have made any difference for her if they had stayed in contact with her.”

There is a slight chance that he is wrong and that it would have prevented her from becoming a, well, monster. But Mycroft assumes that nothing could have saved her from being like this. She had been born like this. And she had never paid any attention to their parents – she had been only interested in the middle child – Sherlock. But if Sherlock had known about her and had visited her… His thoughts are running in circles and it is futile. He cannot change the past.

Sherlock has walked around his desk, and Mycroft gets up. They are safe. His office is secure. And nobody comes in without being invited. So he dares to curl his arms around Sherlock's slim waist and kiss his cheek.

“Thank you for keeping them from biting me.”

Sherlock chuckles and pecks him on the cheek, too. “My pleasure. You didn't deserve this. _You_ are the grown-up, the golden boy, and they know it. They’ll come back crawling and begging your pardon.”

Mycroft doubts this. But he doesn’t really care. The only person whose opinion matters is right in his arms. “I shall accept their deepest apologies then,” he drawls.

They smile at each other, and then they kiss each other on the lips. It feels delightfully dangerous to do this here, secure or not. And he can sense that Sherlock is very aware of this, too. Breaking the taboo in the halls of power. Not that they have really broken it so far. It might be regarded as inappropriate but they are not breaking any laws. Not yet.

The next kiss is less innocent. Their tongues begin a dance of devotion, not competition. Sherlock is a very good kisser for someone so inexperienced. Is he though? Who knows who he did kiss… Irene Adler comes to mind.

Sherlock pulls back, tilting his head. “I can hear you think, brother. And you might know now that I saved The Woman but be assured this is all I did.”

John had given it away when he had assumed that the coffin was meant to be Irene’s. But it had not come as a surprise. “You cannot leave the country without me noticing, little brother. Well, actually I only found out a day after I told John about her alleged death. People were slipping…”

“I bet you weren’t exactly happy. But you never mentioned it.”

Mycroft shrugs. “It wasn’t important. She was of no interest to the government anymore.” It’s a lie of course. She might not have mattered in any security regard, but Sherlock having saved her had surely mattered to him. He had been raging with jealousy.

“I never wanted anything from her,” Sherlock says, not missing his reaction. “She was a stimulating puzzle. Intellectually only.”

Mycroft is not quite sure that this is true. But in the end it had been him who Sherlock had loved for so long. And it’s him who is now allowed to plunder this beauteous mouth, not her. She has never returned to England. He can be generous. But if she ever comes back…

“I just saw a glimpse of the Iceman in your eyes,” Sherlock teases him.

Mycroft smiles. “He is not a myth.”

“Hm. I guess so. No reason for him to come out and be nasty.”

“No. Not with you.” Mycroft pecks him on the lips again. “I need to get some more work done, little brother. I’ll see you when I come home? If there’s no case that requires your attention, of course.” Mrs Hudson has offered him to see clients in the room Sherlock had been supposed to stay at until he can move into 221B again. If she’d been surprised about him moving in with his brother, she hadn’t shown it.

“I will be there,” Sherlock assures him. “And if it’s possible, I’d like to go to Sherrinford tomorrow morning.”

Until then, things should have calmed down in the prison. “I’ll have it arranged.” He doesn’t exactly like it even though he had been the one to suggest it. But if Eurus had really just wanted to help them out of gratitude towards Sherlock, she deserves his attention. Well, as much as anyone who has committed such crimes deserves this. But he won’t let them unsupervised for a single second. He has learned his lesson...

“She’ll be good,” Sherlock assures him. “I’ll bring my violin.”

Yes. Perhaps he can reach her better parts, if she does have them indeed, through music, with the help of the Stradivarius that Eurus has given him. His brother is a clever man.

Sherlock leaves a minute later after another gentle kiss. Mycroft reluctantly returns to his work. He can’t wait to be at home with him.

## Mycroft's House

Sherlock feels… weird. A bit anxious. It is stupid. It is his brother who hands him a glass now, an affectionate smile on his lips. The brother he’s known all his life, the brother he can trust more than anybody else. Who has always had his back, if Sherlock wanted to acknowledge it or not. So much has happened between them since Sherlock had been a little boy who loved to run around, playing pirate. They have grown apart – the age gap, the facts of life like school and university, Sherlock's confusing feelings for his brother. But Mycroft has always been so present to him. Sherlock thinks that there hasn’t been a single day he has not thought about him, even if there have been times when they did not see each other for months. Mycroft is still this chubby child who carried Sherlock on his back, pretending to be a pirate ship. He is still the teenage boy who showed Sherlock how to build a mind palace. The handsome twenty-something who taught him to drive. The man who told him that his loss would break his heart.

And yet they have now started to go down a path that is so foreign to Sherlock that, no matter how much he craves it, he also fears it, hence he suggested they’d take their time with these things. He has never fantasised about actually having sex with his brother. It had always appeared to be so far out of reach that it would have only hurt him if he had allowed himself to even consider it. Mycroft has not been, crudely spoken, a wank fantasy to him. He has always been the admirable, handsome man on the podium, mocked by him because he could not afford letting him see his true feelings.

And now Mycroft knows about them, knows what Sherlock feels for him and returns it wholeheartedly, and Sherlock is totally out of his depth. But they both are, he realises when Mycroft sits down, smiling cautiously at him. Mycroft is every bit as nervous as he is. Because he fears that they will start something that Sherlock will not like in the end? Or because he still sees the little boy when he looks at him?

But when Mycroft welcomed him at the door, there was this certain glimmer in his eyes. They kissed, innocently once more, but Sherlock felt the suppressed hunger in the way Mycroft curled his arms around his waist for a moment before pulling back. Mycroft will always give him a way out but Sherlock knows he will never take it. He may have wanted his brother for two-and-a-half decades in a rather theoretical way but now that a sexual relationship is in his grasp, he is not willing to let it go, no matter if it is also a bit scary.

And he sees the hidden desire in Mycroft's eyes now. They clink glasses and take a sip of their drinks, and then Sherlock puts his glass onto the table.

“Are you hungry?” Mycroft asks him, ever the concerned big brother.

He will always be, he will always put Sherlock's interests above his own, and this certainty finally makes Sherlock's anxiety vanish. He and his strong feelings can’t be in any better hands than his brother’s.

“I am,” Sherlock confirms, and then he pulls Mycroft in for a kiss that should let his brother know that there is no reason to be shy now.

Mycroft only hesitates for a second before his lips return the pressure of Sherlock’s, before his tongue demands entrance and gets it granted at once. His arms close around Sherlock's waist again and Sherlock can feel his blood rush southwards, and his brother may not have been a sexual fantasy for him but he quickly has become a sexual reality now. His hands slide over Mycroft's back and he is cheeky enough to grab a cheek, making Mycroft gasp into his mouth. His brother is clearly very excited now, too.

But somehow Sherlock does not want any clumsy groping on this couch, as comfortable as it may be. He breaks the kiss and Mycroft gives him a concerned, not a disappointed look before he smiles, having deduced Sherlock's thoughts, and he is obviously very pleased with them.

“Would you like to go upstairs?” he suggests.

Sherlock nods, a probably silly grin pulling at his lips. “Yes, please.”

Mycroft gets up and offers him his hand. “Then follow me, brother dear. But remember – you can say no at every step we take. You are not obliged to…”

“Shut up, Mycroft. ‘No’ is the last word you’re going to hear from me.” How can he feel so calm about this now? Well, not exactly _calm_ but… relaxed? Oh, yes. Because this is Mycroft. Just Mycroft.

The older brother looks a bit shocked for a moment before he laughs, entwining their fingers. “Well then, little brother. Off to a new adventure.”

“I love adventures.”

“I know you do.”

‘ _And I love_ you _’_ Sherlock doesn’t speak out, but his eyes tell his brother, and they share a smile that Sherlock will never forget.

*****

“So… Here we are.”

“It would seem so, yes,” nods Mycroft.

This is rather awkward. Lying next to each other on Mycroft's large bed, not touching, about ten inches space between them. They have mostly undressed, keeping only their underpants on. It would be even stranger if they had lain down fully clothed. But is weird enough as it is.

Sherlock gives a shy glance at Mycroft's upper body. He hasn’t expected it to be so hairy. A dark fur is covering his abdomen and chest, and pink nipples are poking out of it. It looks incredibly manly and sexy. His stomach looks softer than Sherlock's plane muscles but his brother is far from being chubby. Sherlock feels bad for all the weight jokes he had cracked over the years. He has done it mostly to impress John, he thinks. How stupid… Perhaps he is indeed the slow one.

But he doesn’t want to be that now. Before Mycroft, who is looking a tad uncomfortable, can change his mind about this. Because Sherlock is not going to do this. He had suggested taking their time and probably they should but who knows what will happen tomorrow? They have to do _something_. Something nice. And so he turns to face Mycroft and bends forward to kiss him, and he sighs when two large hands are put onto his cheeks and his kiss is heartily returned.

Sherlock slings one leg around his brother, making their groins meet, and they both groan at the contact. A warm hand is put onto his arse and Sherlock feels dizzy with arousal. He fingers Mycroft, too, feeling the hot skin through the thin fabric of his boxer briefs. Their clothed cocks grind against each other and Sherlock wants more, forgotten is all shyness for now.

He impatiently fumbles with Mycroft's underwear until the pants slide over his brother’s pert backside. He hastens to free himself of the last stitch of clothing as well, and then he looks down in awe at what he has revealed. They may not look like brothers considering their faces and hair, but their cocks are amazingly similar in girth and shape. Mycroft has about an inch more length though, the light-pink glans glistening with wetness. Sherlock engulfs both their pricks with his hand, feeling soft, silky skin over throbbing hardness, and he is aroused more than he would have ever thought possible. He rarely indulges in self-pleasuring, and if he does, he gets it over with efficiently and rather impatiently.

This feels so different. Mycroft is panting, his breath hot against Sherlock’s face. He is all living, breathing wonder, and Sherlock can’t be close enough to him. Kissing Mycroft fiercely, he massages them both, grateful for his long fingered-hands. His senses are filled with smells and tastes and the quiet noises they are producing. It still feels sort of unreal, especially as he had never dared to imagine that this could become a reality. For so long he had been pining for his brother and now that it is really happening, it feels overwhelming and overpowering.

But Sherlock has never backed away from challenges, and he may be inexperienced and clumsy in his movements, but he makes up for that with his excitement and enthusiasm. And after a few minutes of frantic rubbing, using their combined pre-seminal fluids to ease his way, he pushes his brother over the edge first, and the result is rather spectacular. Mycroft explodes over Sherlock's hand and stomach, and he rasps out a cute, strangled noise that makes Sherlock giggle before he is overwhelmed by his arousal and follows his brother, climaxing generously himself, painting Mycroft's furry stomach with white stripes.

They pant and chuckle, both feeling ridiculously happy, and it is Sherlock who urges Mycroft to lay his head on his chest, holding him close. They have so recently gone through hell and back but it feels as if it had happened ages ago. Sherlock feels as calm as he can’t remember having felt in a very long time, and he realises that this soothes his brother. If Sherlock had been fidgety and nervous now, Mycroft might have felt guilty for what just happened. But he seems to understand that this would just be a waste of time. Sherlock knows this can never come out, to nobody, but he feels completely content with it. They have made a decision for themselves that nobody has to bother about. They are grown men and they might have rushed things a bit, perhaps because death had just been such a threatening possibility. And now that they have gotten over with their ‘first time’, they can start getting to know each other better before they continue their exploration. Or not – Sherlock is very happy to do more right away if Mycroft is open to it.

For now they just doze off, lying together, silent and sated, and Sherlock feels as if he has truly come home.

## Epilogue

The next morning, eleven am, Sherlock enters Sherrinford. He is accompanied by two heavily armed guards and he is carrying his Stradivarius.

His sister is looking at him through the glass wall, her eyes deducing like mad. Sherlock gives her the barest of winks before he pulls out his instrument. Eurus gets her own violin, and they start to play. In fact Eurus starts and Sherlock follows along within the blink of an eye, and they look into each other’s eyes – and they begin to smile simultaneously.

Mycroft has gone to work like every day. He doesn’t feel like every day, though. His heart is light. He briefly checks the feeds of Sherrinford when he knows that Sherlock must have arrived. They are playing together and it is a surprisingly peaceful picture. They are being supervised all the time. And he knows he owes their sister this time with Sherlock. He is happy, truly happy, for the first time in his life. Perhaps their parents will forgive him, perhaps not. It doesn’t really matter.

He reads his reports and talks to people. Business as usual. When his phone chirps with a text from Sherlock, asking about his day, he smiles.

He can’t wait to see him again and make every day from now on a feast of love. This matters.

The End


End file.
